


Blood Runner

by VIII (Valkyrien)



Series: Burning Exhaust [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Albeit In A Roundabout And Underhanded Sort Of Way, F/M, I Am All About Two-For-The Price-Of-One, Meanwhile His Past Finds A Way To Reappear At An Inopportune Moment, No Mother It's Not A Gang It's A Charity, Rickon Stark's Personal Issues Find An Outlet In Volunteer Work, The First Chapter Is Absolutely To Fill The Prompt Of 'Affection' For Shipweek, This Is In Homage To One Of My Favourite Charities, UK Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-18 15:19:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8166538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valkyrien/pseuds/VIII
Summary: Rickon Stark is a blood biker. It's the only thing he has going for him, and it leads him right back to where he started.
It's not a bad place, second time around.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

   The clock on the mantelpiece reads 9:47 PM.

 

 

   It occurs to Rickon vaguely that it's a Friday night, and that he could be out on the town tucking into a beer - he's fairly certain if he'd asked about he could have joined any number of people for one. Arya and Gendry are definitely out, and these days Robb is always up for any excuse to get out of the house, and failing that Rickon can't recall Jon and Ygritte ever turning down a night on the lash.

 

 

   He's not really feeling the lack of it though, even if he is fairly bored stuck in his living room with something mindless on the telly that he's not bothering to pay attention to because Sansa picked it and she's nattering on about something or other, and between the two he'd rather pay cursory attention to her.

 

 

   She's over ostensibly to keep him company while he's on call, and mind the house and Shaggydog in case a call does come in, but Rickon knows that these days it's more like a kind of mutual babysitting. She needs people around, people who'll let her talk, and Rickon understands that, because for a while there she got out of the habit of being listened to, and he wasn't around to do it then, so whatever she wants to say now he's here for. Unless a call comes in, and then he's off, but she understands that. Supports it, even.

 

 

   Sometimes he goes whole nights without a call and sometimes it's flat-out, but if there's a big accident on the m-way or something, things can get a bit tight. Most calls tend to come through between ten and eleven though, in his experience, and Fridays are often busy, so he fully expects Sansa might be home alone tonight until the wee hours with only Shaggydog for company, and maybe the odd cheeky chat to Rickon's controller, because he gets bored as, too, and Sansa's natural bent for busy-bodying means she's rung base for info on Rickon so many times since he started volunteering that she now knows everyone there by name, and after the summer fundraiser she insisted on throwing them in support of Rickon doing something ' _so worthy, Rickon, I'm so **proud** of you!_ ' she's become a sort of peripheral fixture.

 

 

   Rickon definitely knows she spends a lot of time baking for the boys. It benefits him too, and gives her something to do to feel useful, so he's all for it. And because his controller doesn't know the meaning of the word subtle Rickon also knows that he and Sansa chat it up on the regular when Rickon's called out and Sansa's got the place to herself and feels a bit lonely, and sometimes just during the day when she needs someone to listen to her and provide the kind of unbiased, non-judgmental moral support you can only get from gruff ex-services biker types whose brand of personal wisdom leans toward the exclusively earthy and crude and who have a lot of time on their hands.

 

 

   Given that Sansa insists it's been good for her and helped broaden her emotional horisons - Rickon hasn't questioned that - and he knows Clegane is just as much of a lonely, socially mal-adjusted bastard as he is himself and genuinely likes talking to Sansa, bringing the number of things he genuinely enjoys up to perhaps a solid three things including having access to regular meals and a decent place to crap, Rickon is all for that, too.

 

 

   “ - Myrcella told me the Baratheons are getting divorced,” Sansa is saying, and Rickon feels a tug at his memory, but it's not enough to give him a way to respond, so he just waits it out and sure enough, she carries on,

 

 

   “I mean, I'm not surprised - apparently Selyse is just _awful_ , but Myrcella told me that there's another woman involved! Can you imagine? _Stannis Baratheon_ , an _adulterer?_ ”

 

 

   She pauses for a reaction, and Rickon tries for one that will match the clear expectation on her face.

 

 

   “...no?”

 

 

   “I know!” she exclaims, eyes wide, so he must have gotten it right, and then she goes on with equal enthusiasm,

 

 

   “It must be something about that family - Robert was the same way, you know - but I don't think anyone could have expected it of _Stannis!_ Daddy always said Stannis Baratheon was as dutiful as the day is long, and - ”

 

 

   “The name's familiar, but honestly I've no idea who you're on about,” Rickon cuts in frankly, feeling more than a little bit guilty for leaving it so late, because odds are good this is another one of those things he missed while he was gone, and if there's one thing that weighs on him in the regretting hours where sleep eludes him and his past mistakes crowd in on him like gnats by a lake, it's that he missed so much then, and he still has trouble keeping up and tuning back in to all the little things like this, but at least Sansa doesn't look disappointed, just a bit surprised, but then she wrinkles her nose and prompts,

 

 

   “The Baratheons? You know the _Baratheons_ , Rickon,” and that's it, there's the disappointed frown.

 

 

   “I don't know that one,” he insists defensively,

 

 

   “I never met them all - which one's that?”

 

 

   “Robert's brother, Stannis, and his wife, Selyse, and their daughter, Myrcella's cousin,” Sansa lists them off seriously,

 

 

   “But I've never met her - honestly, Rickon, do you not remember them? They used to live quite near us, I'm sure you must have seen them - I think we even had Stannis and Selyse round once, back when Daddy was doing all that business with Robert - ”

 

 

   Before she can latch on to a fresh tangent he shakes his head insistently and tells her,

 

 

   “No idea who they are,” which is mostly true, because the name is definitely ringing a bell but if there's one thing he'd like to avoid it's a genealogy lesson on the entire Baratheon line and all its many offshoots, legitimate and illegitimate, and the families they connect with, and knowing Sansa, that's exactly what he'll get if he doesn't nip this in the bud.

 

 

   “Really?” she pushes, incredulous, and then she seems to consider, looks him over like she sometimes does when she's remembering just how much younger than her he actually is, and she taps her nails on the remote and muses,

 

 

   “Well, I suppose it might have been before your time - you might have been too young then, it _was_ ages ago, and they moved away long before you went off to boarding - ” and then she sighs and decides,

 

 

   “That must be why,” and Rickon nods agreement but keeps his mouth shut so as not to encourage the topic, but apparently this news is juicy enough that even if he hasn't the sodding foggiest who these people are, she's more than willing to explain just so she can try and get the reaction she was originally hoping for, because she launches into,

 

 

   “But you know _Robert_ Baratheon, right? Well - ”

 

 

   His phone interrupts her with a loud but blurry blare of sound where it's lying wrong way up on the table, and she starts and uncurls her legs, instantly fidgety, and he picks it up calmly, reading it through twice and getting to his feet before answering her anxious,

 

 

   “Is it a call? Do you have to go?”

 

 

   “Urgent blood run,” he tells her, fingers already moving to respond and confirm automatically, and he glances at where she's chewing her bottom lip and smiles at her reassuringly,

 

 

   “I'll be gone a while,” and she follows him to the door with Shaggydog happily trotting in her wake, picking at her fingers and hovering nervously while Rickon shrugs into his leathers and pulls on his boots, keeping his movements deliberate and methodical, but the note of worry in her voice is still there when she asks,

 

 

   “How long is a while? Which hospital?”

 

 

   “Maybe a couple of hours,” Rickon says shortly, checking his jacket for the essentials, and then he turns back to look at her. She's gone teary and trembly and he hates leaving her on her own, but thankfully he's got backup.

 

 

   “Listen, it's not that late - why don't you and Shaggy curl up with a film and a cuppa, and if you like you can track me on the tablet,” he suggests, and Shaggydog huffs and licks her hand, and a little smile jumps onto her face as her fingers curl over Shaggy's ears automatically, and Rickon grins.

 

 

   “See, you two don't need me at all,” he comments, and it makes her giggle, so he follows it up with an overly leading and casual,

 

 

   “But if things get really slow around here you can always call Clegane - I know the two of you prefer to chat when I'm not around - ” and he feels he's won a grand victory when she sputters and colours and laughs and starts shoving him out the door shouting,

 

 

   “ _Alright_ , bye now, drive safely, we'll be fine, off you go!”

 

 

   “I _have_ to drive safely, Sansa, that's sort of the point,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes at her but striding to the garage anyway, and from behind him he can hear her lecturing.

 

 

   “I know that, Rickon, but just don't forget that _you're_ precious cargo too, and remember to text us when you're on your way home again, and let me know if you need anything - oh! Do you have your keys, in case I fall asleep?”

 

 

   “I've got everything,” he shouts over his shoulder as he retrieves his second bike, not even having to turn the lights on, the hi-vis greeting him even in the relative gloom of the garage despite the only light coming from the doorway Sansa and Shaggydog are still blocking across the drive, and he does a quick check of everything, from the box on the back to his headlamp, and then largely drowns her out with the engine as she crossly retorts,

 

 

   “I'm only saying!”

 

 

   “Yeah, and I'm off - I'll text you later, alright?” Rickon promises loudly, waving at her, and she jumps up and down and squeals,

 

 

   “Okay - ride safely, love you, see you later!” as he pulls on his helmet and then waves again before taking off.

 

 

   It's always a bit funny how nervy she gets when he gets called out - like she forgets that he was an experienced rider even before he took a crapload of courses just to be allowed to volunteer as a blood biker, like he didn't manage perfectly well all on his own touring the world on two wheels for over a year when he got his license and finished college because he needed to escape before finally coming back home to be part of everything again - but he knows that part of it is down to all the shit he missed while he was away, first at boarding school, although that was far from his choice, and then on his extended self-realisation trip which he refuses to call a gap year because it's only a gap year if it's between two educational stints, and he's been pissing about doing eff-all ever since he got back.

 

 

   Other than this, that is. He's been doing this ever since he got back, too, or near as.

 

 

   Thing is, none of them actually have to work if they don't want to. Between their individual trust funds and Ned Stark's business, and old family money in general, none of the Starks really have any financial motivation to do bugger-all with their lives. If they wanted, they could all live more than comfortably in complete slothful idleness for the rest of their days and get by just fine.

 

 

   That never did much for Rickon's restlessness or lack of direction, and it still hasn't. In a way, it's a part of why he did up and say ' _sod all this for a lark_ ' when he was done with college and still had no idea what to do with himself, and then buggered off to see the world from the seat of a motorbike. The fact that his parents had seen fit to send him off to boarding school in the middle of nowhere as a pre-teen they couldn't manage for convenience and only took him back when he was too old for that and ripe for college - which was a condition of him getting the money his uncle put in trust for him in particular, a completed college degree - had something to do with how fed up he was with being dictated to and putting up with the people around him at the time.

 

 

   The fact that his family was basically imploding and no one had the extra resources to give him the time of day back then was also a deciding factor. He still doesn't much like visiting his parents, hence him getting a place of his own, although Sansa's round more often than not and has her own room.

 

 

   Of them all, Sansa perhaps understands the best why Rickon couldn't hang about back then, why he needed to be off on his own for so long, a hard reset after having come to resent everyone in his life so much. It's probably why they spend so much time together now, aside from Rickon's massive guilt complex over having not been here when she needed him most. Funny thing, that - their mother was the one who guilted him the hardest over leaving the way he did as soon as he could, like she had any fucking room to talk after having sent him off to boarding school for years, and Rickon honestly couldn't give a shit about that, but Sansa's never once blamed him for leaving them all behind for more than a year with nary a word other than the occasional confirmation that he was still alive, and he could hardly feel more guilty for not having been available to her.

 

 

   It's not like anyone else had the time or inclination to be, what with Robb going through his second divorce in as many years, the fucking tit, Bran struggling through rehabilitation and uni and discovering his sexuality all at the same time, Jon off on the draft, and Arya so desperate to forge her own path and find her own identity that she ran off with not one but three boyfriends, only one of whom stuck.

 

 

   By the time anyone noticed that Sansa was being abused by her fiancée, it was a bit bloody late. So is he, now, Rickon thinks viciously as he turns onto a largely empty section of dual carriageway, the little shit. Joffrey _fucking_ Baratheon has joined his whore-mongering father and drunken slapper of a mother as food for worms, apparently having turned to the bottle just as hard as his genetics would warrant after the court case of _Sansa Stark v Joffrey Baratheon_ came out beautifully in favour of the former and the latter stood to face some very serious time in prison. Little gobshite couldn't hold his wine though, in a surprising turn of events which Rickon feels is its own poetic irony given his parentage, and copped it following some serious binging.

 

 

   If ever there were a person who deserved to drown in his own vomit face-down and bare-arsed in his mother's kitchen though...

 

 

   Rickon wishes he'd been about then, though. Or even just for the aftermath where Sansa had a brief but ill-advised affair with a girl who was apparently her successor as Joffrey's favourite victim slash fiancée and whom she met during the trial where they both gave evidence against him, but who turned out to not be the committing type. It definitely set Sansa back several months of recovery in terms of her self-esteem.

 

 

   She's coming round now, doing a lot better, but still. Rickon feels he should have been here. Done more. Even if he'd probably have ended up murdering someone.

 

 

   He feels a lot less like murdering people these days. For one thing, getting involved with charitable volunteering, though starting out as something he latched on to after hearing one of Jon's mates talk about how the blood bikers his hospital worked with were absolute angels and needed more riders for, has been an absolute godsend.

 

 

   Rickon now honestly thinks that if it hadn't been for that, he wouldn't have lasted much longer than that first week back home after his trip, restless and bored out of his mind and feeling utterly useless in the face of everything going on around him, everything he'd missed, but the prospect of doing something, anything, where human interaction requirements would be minimal and the hours largely nocturnal and which involved very specific, achievable goals and a lot of time spent riding his bike was exactly what he needed to ease him back into being around people again.

 

 

   Just the fact that he's keeping pace strictly within speed limits despite there not being a soul on the road besides him right now and he's thinking about the past and specifically about past trespasses against him and his loved ones is a lot more than he'd have been able to achieve when he got back.

 

 

   Now, he has no problem detaching from his rage and guilt and focusing on the task at hand. In fact, as always, with a clear destination in mind and the parameters of his ride set up for him, despite the stated urgency of his task, Rickon finds the situation oddly soothing. He knows where he's going and why when he's on call in a way he rarely does in the everyday when he's the one at the helm. The comfort of these respites from having to take stock of things and make choices for himself is such that he's on call as often as they'll let him be. He's heard Jon speak of a similar thing coming over him when he was in the forces, but Rickon has always known he could never be a soldier. He's terrible with orders and authority, he couldn't stick that at any price day in, day out.

 

 

   Doing this, though, is just the right balance. Not only that, but he knows he's doing something important, making a difference.

 

 

   He catches up to a car trundling along quite happily and oblivious to his approach after a while, and where he might have overtaken usually, instead he flashes his main beam at them to wake up the dozy driver. He knows he could easily trim vital minutes off his ride, but then he wouldn't have the control he does, and that's what these trips are for him - exercises in control. He's being relied upon. Even if he did throw caution to the wind, if he gets pulled over, explaining himself to the fuzz will only waste whatever time he'd spared by riding more recklessly, even if they did let him off leniently because of what he's out here for. It's not worth it. Something about knowing that takes the frenetic edge off his thoughts that is usually present even when he's just off down the shops for a pint of milk.

 

 

   The route's pre-determined as well, so his controller can give an accurate ETA and know where he is at all times. He knows Clegane's tracking him from base, that Sansa's probably watching his progression on the tablet at home because once she mentioned that she always worries when Rickon's out so late on his own like this, Clegane made short work of copying the tracking app to her tablet so she can watch right along with base if she needs reassurance that Rickon's not dead in a ditch somewhere.

 

 

   In the end, Rickon reaches his first destination in only forty-three minutes, right on the predicted money, and parking in front of A&E there's already a nurse waiting for him with the big red bag he's after.

 

 

   Her face is pretty grim, and he doesn't know how long she's been on shift, but he's been advised this delivery is urgent, and so when she signs over the case marked 'Human Blood' to him, he doesn't fuck about, not that he ever does. They both make short work of it, and she returns his,

 

 

   “Evening,” with a curt nod, and then he's off again, precious cargo safe and secure. He always takes his time strapping it in properly. It's not worth getting it wrong. He doesn't want to try to explain to a grieving family that the blood their relative desperately needed ended up spread all over the windscreen of a car on the M40.

 

 

   Occasionally he's met nurses who provide a bit of banter, send him on his way with a bit of cheek and sometimes even a request for him not to be a stranger, though that's usually when he's dropping something off rather than picking something up where time is of the essence, but to be honest he's just not up for it. Maybe it's been seeing how much shit his entire family has been through for the sake of horribly failed relationships, but Rickon is in no hurry to screw himself over for the sake of a bit of how's-your-father.

 

 

   He knows he's got about another forty-odd minutes to where he and the blood need to be, and he makes sure to make it as controlled and smooth as the first stretch.

 

 

   Out here with only the distractions of traffic and an otherwise clear mind, the streetlights and small illuminated scenes from people's windows whizzing by, Rickon finds the memory of who Stannis Baratheon is suddenly coming to him unbidden.

 

 

   Sansa's not wrong - he and his family used to live not far from the Starks. Large house, mostly shielded from the road by trees, with a long, winding driveway behind a big fuck-off iron gate.

 

 

   Rickon went past that gate only the once, in all the years the Starks lived a few streets down from there, in their own big house in that affluent neighbourhood.

 

 

   He must have been ten, he thinks, maybe eleven. Theon was still living with them in the fostering arrangement that came to an abrupt end not long after that, for reasons which are now more than obvious to Rickon, because Theon was always an incorrigible shag-merchant and a complete knob-wipe, and he is fairly certain it must have been Theon's idea to toddle over to the Baratheon place after dark one fine autumn evening, with Robb and Jon, and Rickon in tow for lack of anything else to do, so Theon could point out to them all that from the road at the right angle you could see right into the upstairs bedroom windows, particularly in the dark when the lights were on inside providing a nice contrast the eye couldn't help but be drawn to.

 

 

   And what an eyeful, Rickon remembers, because that was the whole reason Theon showed them.

 

 

   In fact, the pervy sod was _proud_ , as Rickon recalls, to have hit on this obvious secret - that at the right time of day from the right spot outside, you could stand about and watch the oblivious daughter of the house get ready for bed because her curtains weren't drawn.

 

 

   Rickon also recalls Theon's triumphant crowing that it'd been worth the few minutes of boring inactivity which Robb had been complaining about to wait for the night's entertainment - at no extra charge, live and in Technicolor, Miss Baratheon coming back from the bath, taking off her towel, and getting into her nighty.

 

 

   Less vividly, Rickon recalls Jon's disgusted chastisement of Theon's pervy spying, Robb's less vehement response to it, and Rickon's own gut reaction.

 

 

   He does remember very vividly punching Theon in the crotch and denouncing him as sick and then taking off at full tilt for the Baratheon house - fitting through the bars of the gate and ignoring Robbs attempts at calling him back in a panicked hiss - kicking the big door repeatedly until someone opened up, because he couldn't reach the huge cast iron gargoyle knocker, and telling what he is now sure was Stannis Baratheon,

 

 

   “Tell your daughter to pull her curtains, we can see her from the road!”

 

 

   He's sure it was Stannis Baratheon because although the memories are less than fresh, he does recall the man looking about as fucking livid as he'd ever seen anyone look and then hauling Rickon bodily back to the Stark house, Jon, Robb, and Theon nowhere to be seen, having likely run off to save their own sorry hides, and then shoving Rickon at a bewildered Ned whose response to this was a shocked,

 

 

   “Stannis - ” and then the tirade began, and Rickon doesn't remember the specifics of that, only that he blamed his brothers and Ned tried to defend them all but Stannis effectively used the ' _you have daughters too_ ' card and that spelled the end of that attempt.

 

 

   Rickon doesn't remember how he and the others were punished. He thinks he may have gotten off with a warning because he was the only one honest enough to shop everyone for it. He's fairly sure Theon was sent to live with his sister not long after that - good riddance, as far as Rickon's concerned, Theon always made Sansa uncomfortable and to this day, only Robb maintains a strained friendship with him.

 

 

   Rickon shakes off the wool-gathering of yesteryear as an ambulance passes him, sirens wailing, and he realises he's fairly close to the hospital. He almost follows the ambulance across a red light but catches himself in time, and seeing the car that crosses the junction immediately he's both glad he didn't do it - he'd be on the bonnet now - and annoyed with himself for forgetting himself like that.

 

 

   Minutes later he's parking outside the A&E entrance alongside the very same ambulance that passed him earlier, back doors open and paramedics hard at work, and he keeps his stride brisk and his eyes averted, but one of the nurses rushing to their aid spots the package in his hand and snaps,

 

 

   “Thank fuck, it's for her,” and waves him over.

 

 

   This isn't normal, he's not prepared for this, and his hand's halfway down his pocket for the paperwork, but she reaches for the box instead, and she only glances at the paperwork when he hands over both before snatching the box and handing it off to one of the paramedics and then steering Rickon out of the way as a doctor joins the melee and they all get the patient out of the ambulance and wheeled inside in a mad rush. Rickon sees a lot of blood, ghostly pale limbs spattered with it, and dark hair. The doctor's already stuck into the blood Rickon brought, and they vanish down a brilliant white corridor before Rickon realises he's been towed inside by the nurse, who has also relieved him of the paperwork and is scanning it more thoroughly, mumbling to herself.

 

 

   Rickon catches the word,

 

 

   “Baratheon...”

 

 

   “What?” he blurts, as she signs off like she's supposed to, and she looks up at his doubtlessly shocked expression, and tells him, terse but with tired sympathy,

 

 

   “I said, Shireen Baratheon. Do you know her?”

 

 

   “I - I think my sister - ” he mumbles, and suddenly everything is too real, the lights are too bright, things are bending at the corners of his vision in ways they shouldn't, and the nurse is pushing him into a moulded plastic chair and telling him to take minute, pressing a flimsy paper cup of water into his hand, and he drinks it automatically and then hears himself say,

 

 

   “I need to get back - ”

 

 

   “Not on your life, mate,” the nurse orders, keeping him firmly seated with her hands hard on his shoulders, and then she guides him through a series of breaths until everything stops swimming, and she tells him calmly,

 

 

   “If you know her, I'm sorry you saw that, but the blood you brought should make all the difference. Now if I were you, I'd get myself off home and have a strong cuppa and go straight to bed, alright? Tell your controller you're done for the night.”

 

 

   Rickon feels himself nod, but he's barely paying attention, and when finally she leaves him to see to an admittance, he digs out his phone and calls Clegane.

 

 

   “ _Stark! Problem?_ ” comes the instant rough reply, and Rickon heaves a deep breath.

 

 

   “Delivered. But. Shit. I don't - ”

 

 

   “ _Take a breath, lad. Hand-off complete?_ ” Clegane bites off slowly, and Rickon nods, feeling his focus return.

 

 

   “Yeah. But - not like normal. Got here right after the ambulance, they took it off me for the - I think we _know_ her, I think Sansa knows her - _fuck_ , I'm done,” Rickon says, trying to keep his voice clear, scrubbing a hand over his face and realising he's still got one glove on.

 

 

   “ _You got the paperwork sorted? Signed?_ ”

 

 

   “Yeah, yeah, it's done, I just...”

 

 

   “ _Hang about. Get your shit together. Breathe. Ride back when you're ready and not a fucking moment sooner, you hear me? I'll let Sansa know you're en route - you're off the clock, but I'll track you back, alright?_ ” comes Clegane's harsh, no-nonsense tone, and Rickon realises for the first time what Sansa means by him having a soothing voice. He sounds like he's got shit so well covered that he's a bit annoyed by how boring it all is. Whether that's true or not, it's incredibly reassuring.

 

 

   “Alright, yeah - can you ask Sansa something? No, tell her,” Rickon amends, making his way outside back to his bike, the fresh air hitting him like he's been sweating even though he feels chilled,

 

 

   “Tell her, if Myrcella's cousin's name is _Shireen_ Baratheon, they need to get down here, now.”

 

 

   “ _I'll tell her. Get your arse home and get some sleep_ ,” Clegane orders, ending the call, and Rickon puts away his phone and spends a few minutes propped up next to his bike trying to come to terms with how fucked up it is that he just spent almost his entire ride here remembering an incident to do with that branch of the Baratheons and now he almost feels like he somehow _summoned_ one here by some unholy rule of surrealism.

 

 

   He feels sick all the way home but once he gets there and Sansa tears open the door and comes rushing out with Shaggydog at her side and falls about his neck going nineteen to the dozen about Myrcella and attempted murder and gods know what, he's got enough control back to detach her gently and tell her he needs to put his bike away and ask her if she'd please make him a cuppa, and she nods frantically and darts back inside, the task seeming to give her something to focus on as he focuses on his own, but something about the scene from his own kitchen window of his sister standing by the kettle nibbling on her nails as he crosses the drive from garage to front door in darkness is too like the memory of earlier, and it makes him slow his steps.

 

 

   He locks the front door behind him, and when he enters the kitchen Sansa's already talking to him, saying something about,

 

 

   “ - let Sandor know you're back, he says you're off duty for the rest of the night, he gave the rest of the shift to someone else, oh Rickon, isn't it _awful?_ Myrcella called from the hospital just before you got here, Shireen's out of surgery, but there's a real chance she might not last the night!”

 

 

   Rickon doesn't reply to his tearful sister, he just folds her into a hug. He feels like he's reeling.

 

 

   “We'll go and see her tomorrow, if Myrcella says she can have visitors, alright?” he mumbles into Sansa's hair, and feels her nod against his shoulder.

 

 

   “I'm so proud of you, Rickon,” she whispers, voice breaking, and he smoothes his hands over her back and they stand together for a long moment. Finally, she pulls away, brushes at the corners of her eyes, and then smiles.

 

 

   “I made you a cuppa,” she says chirpily, gesturing at the counter, and he makes an effort to smile back and wraps both hands around the mug.

 

 

   “Thanks,” he tells her, and when she hovers nervously as he takes a long pull of it even though it's scorching, he raises an eyebrow and says,

 

 

   “Why don't you put something on the telly? One of those feel-good things, or summat?”

 

 

   Her smile glows real and he follows her into the living room where the sofa is a predictable mess of blankets and squishy pillows, and for the next hour or so Rickon cuddles up next to his sister and lets Bridget Jones distract him from the sinking feeling of imminent loss he can't shake.

 

 

   -

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

   He wakes up at ten in the morning with Sansa on his chest and Shaggydog on his feet, and the first thing she says when he groans at the angle his neck's set at from a whole night on the sofa is,

 

 

   “Myrcella's at the hospital, she says Shireen's going to be alright. We can visit, if we'd like.”

 

 

   “Right then,” Rickon mumbles, and his mouth's full of cotton for more reasons than going to bed without brushing, and even though his back's in knots he doesn't get up until Sansa does and then calls him from the kitchen that she's putting on bacon and Sandor says good morning.

 

 

   It's more than Rickon can stand and after Sansa's fed him he goes upstairs for a bit of proper kip, and by lunchtime Myrcella reports back to let them know that her cousin's stable but not up to receiving visitors besides family, so Sansa and Rickon end up staying in, Sansa choosing to spend the day reorganising her room to keep out of the way of Rickon's exhausted brooding while he comes to terms with everything.

 

 

   He's not sure he speaks more than twenty words all day, but she doesn't push for anything.

 

 

   Neither one of them actually visits for more than a week, and then it's just Sansa joining Myrcella to bring a home-made get-well care package and some flowers.

 

 

   Myrcella keeps them well abreast of developments via text though, Sansa relaying everything back to Rickon in the evenings when she sits up with him until she gets too tired or he gets a call-out, because he's all but twisted Clegane's arm to give him shifts every night since it happened, which is why the day Sansa does go visiting, Rickon's at home sleeping off an all-night relay, and Sansa has dinner with Myrcella and sleeps over with her so they can have a proper natter, meaning Rickon doesn't actually have to confront any updates head-on.

 

 

   There's no escaping news of Shireen Baratheon though.

 

 

   The reports get more sensational daily, as does Sansa's retelling and deconstruction of them.

 

 

   _She almost died of blood-loss in the ambulance, Myrcella says, you **definitely** saved her life - _

_It's **mad** \- just like an episode of Eastenders or something! Her father's mistress seduced Shireen's mother and convinced her they should do away with Shireen so she'd stop opposing the mistress' marriage to Stannis - can you **believe** that?!_

_They **finally** found the mistress - she and Shireen's mother were at their other estate and the police say they think it's some sort of murder-suicide pact thing, because they're both dead, and no one can get hold of Stannis, but he's wanted for questioning!_

\- and so on, and so on.

 

 

   It seems to have completely taken over not only Myrcella's life, but also Sansa's, and when Rickon finally lets himself ask rather irritably why he'd never even heard about Myrcella having a cousin by that name before now, Sansa makes him run the full gauntlet of her insistence that he _never_ listens because it's _definitely_ been brought up before all this, and only then will Sansa cop to Myrcella having admitted that she'd never really paid Shireen much mind because their parents never got on and Myrcella had been too caught up in her own family drama to give her uncle's divorce and how it might affect her cousin much thought, but it's all delivered with such disappointed expectation that Rickon just comes away feeling mildly guilty for asking at all, as was clearly Sansa's intention.

 

 

   Still, he does point out when Sansa's visits become _regular_ that it seems like she and Myrcella are sort of making Shireen's trauma their project, and to her credit Sansa seems duly ashamed, but she'll only insist that Shireen's lovely and Sansa and Myrcella are sitting with her almost daily to try and bolster her spirits in this difficult time, and there's not much Rickon can say to that.

 

 

   It also apparently doesn't hurt that Shireen's hospital room is something of a pilgrimage site for an endless parade of sailors and squaddies, to hear Sansa tell it, all ' _friends of Shireen's_ ', and when Rickon shares this with Clegane in a fit of sullenness over the whole rotten palaver, his disgusted expletive-laden utterance is exactly Rickon's own feeling on the subject, even if his motivation isn't.

 

 

   Still.

 

 

   He remembers vaguely that she was a shapely girl at a distance years ago before he learned to fully appreciate the splendours of the female form. If she's not changed much since, he understands how her life could well have become a revolving door of suitors vying for her attentions and likely to flock to her bedside in her time of need in the meantime.

 

 

   Perhaps because it's all like something off one of her soaps and Sansa's all caught up in the excitement of it, she takes a good while to work her way back round to the fact that Rickon, despite his initial suggestion, hasn't actually been anywhere near Shireen Baratheon since the night of her near death, but when she does remember, she does so with an unwelcome vengeance.

 

 

   “You should go and see her,” she wheedles,

 

 

   “You could come with us, then it wouldn't be awkward! She already knows all about you, I told her, and she said she'd love to thank you properly for what you did to save her!”

 

 

   Rickon doesn't want to be thanked, is the thing.

 

 

   Not just because he doesn't feel comfortable with it, but because he's fairly certain this is the last thing this girl should be thinking about what with everything that's going on.

 

 

   So he evades and insists he's too tired after taking shifts every night to make up for having cut one short, and when Sansa frowns and says he doesn't need to make up for anything and tells him she's sure Clegane will back her up on that and Rickon can just let someone else be on call for a night or two so he can rest up and visit Shireen in hospital - like it'd be a nice little daytrip for Sansa, Myrcella, and him - he finally resorts to suggesting it's been too long since Sansa visited Catelyn and Ned, or Robb, or Bran, or just anyone but Rickon.

 

 

   “If you want me out of your hair, all you need to do is say so, you don't have to try and foist me off on the family,” she tells him snippily, and Rickon has to bite down on his own sharp retort that it's more like she's properly getting on his tits with all this Shireen Baratheon bollocks, especially when Rickon is still sorting out how he feels about the whole thing, and when he wisely opts to keep his gob shut, Sansa declares that she's having Jojen pick her up and she'll be at Bran's until further notice, and when Rickon is at last alone with Shaggydog again, he feels almost like one of those sad tossers in a midway scene from a romantic comedy after the leading lady walks out on him for failing to be emotionally available, or whatever.

 

 

   He's available, though, is the thing. He just doesn't want to wallow in this poor girl's tragedy. He can't see a single thing he could possibly bring to her situation to improve it when she's been dealt such an utter shitter of a hand by fate, and he knows if he goes to see her he'll find a way to cock it up and make things worse somehow. Honestly it's better if he stays away, and then maybe at some point when this all blows over one day and everything's gone back to normal as much as it ever will again, Sansa can introduce him to her properly in some informal setting or other, if the friendship weathers what Rickon doesn't doubt are stormy seas ahead. You just don't survive something like this and then go merrily on your way through life afterwards.

 

 

   That doesn't mean he isn't consumed by curiosity though, which honestly makes him feel a bit sick of himself. The only upside he can see is that the larger part of his curiosity is born of the fact that he can't visualise her at all, and between his blurry childhood memory of a pale girl in a window of light framed by gloom, and the glimpses of bloody limbs and long dark hair at the hospital, he's got no frame of reference for this girl on everyone's lips, and so he can't help thinking about it.

 

 

   All he can deduce is that, unless she dyes her hair, she probably looks more truly Baratheon than Myrcella and her siblings ever have. It's not enough, especially when he never saw her close enough to get a sense of finer features all those years ago and he was understandably preoccupied with the threat of her imminent death when he saw her being hauled out of an ambulance for emergency surgery, and since then all this talk of her and especially about everything she's being put through has done nothing but needle his guilt. On some level, he's half-convinced he conjured her out of the depths of his own repressed past that night. It's ridiculous, but knowing that doesn't change anything.

 

 

   He's almost afraid to go and see her, even if he is half-obsessed with getting proof positive that she's on the mend.

 

 

   After three weeks trying to run away from it, with Sansa off at Bran's and still huffy over Rickon's unspoken request that she leave him be for a bit, at least about this, the curiosity turns morbid.

 

 

   The turning point is definitely standing in his kitchen with a bit of toast between his teeth after a lengthy midnight run as he reads another call-out text from Clegane, who, credit to him, has completely understood Rickon's need to get his head back on straight and bury himself in something useful and hasn't opposed Rickon's decision to take what's turned into nightly shifts so he can make the change to a mindlessly nocturnal lifestyle for a while. Shaggydog still gets walked at the same time in the morning and the evening, and that was the only other daily routine that needed some permanency, so he's thrown himself into full-time volunteering with impunity and gusto.

 

 

   Tonight though, Clegane's sending him on the same route as the one he rode to deliver the blood that saved Shireen Baratheon.

 

 

   It's not so odd, he thinks, getting his boots back on and sloshing down the last of his toast with scalding tea that hadn't time to cool, this is the region he works in, these are the hospitals and blood banks and what-have-you that the charity services, it's all perfectly normal, it was only a matter of time before a duplicate run turned up, and he's been on call just about every night since it happened, it's not so strange that he should end up catching this one, too.

 

 

   This time it's not urgent - it's also not blood, it's platelets - but despite the fact that it should be a less hectic go of things than last time, it's like all the anxiety Rickon didn't feel on that ride makes itself known now, and so he's nervy as hell when he finally arrives at his end destination, and not even the sight of a familiar green head in A&E waiting for him dispels it.

 

 

   “Alright Stark?” Wylla calls cheekily, winking at him like the jam tart she pretends to be, and all he can stump up is a tired smile and a nod.

 

 

   “Wylla,” he manages as he hands over the paperwork, and she looks it over briskly, glancing up at him every few words.

 

 

   “What'ya got for me today then - platelets - yeah, right, fine, here y'are,” she murmurs, then gives him the necessary and fixes him with a beady eye and a roguish grin, remarking,

 

 

   “You look ragged - who's been wearing you to a sliver then, eh?”

 

 

   “Just me,” he tells her, trying for jovial, and she laughs.

 

 

   “You know that's a bloody shame, that is - tell you what, you get yourself out of fluorescents and into some proper togs, and you'd never need to do for yourself again!” she jokes, and Rickon shrugs and shakes his head.

 

 

   “S'pose I'm heartbroken that you're off the market,” he parries, and she feigns glee.

 

 

   “S'pose you're full of it,” she lets him know, and he does smile properly then, but it's a bit thin on the ground.

 

 

   “Always have been. Wex alright?” he asks her, and she pouts and tosses her head so her ponytail falls down her back instead of over her shoulder.

 

 

   “Whatever ' _alright_ ' means _there_ ,” she sniffs,

 

 

   “I've been trying to move him in with me for months now and he's just not having it. Stubborn bastard.”

 

 

   “He'll come round,” Rickon advises,

 

 

   “It's the illusion of independence. We all like it, some more than others.”

 

 

   “Is that right?” she asks, airy and crafty, her eye agleam with tricks,

 

 

   “That why you're holding off on letting some young thing wrap you round her finger? The illusion of independence?”

 

 

   “Something like that,” Rickon says evasively, and then he glances at his phone. 7AM. He's off the clock.

 

 

   “Wylla, d'you mind if I hang about?” he hears himself asking, and by the way she perks up all suspicious like should be enough to warn him off but even when she says,

 

 

   “What for?” like she's anticipating some kind of nonsense out of him, he serves it right up like he doesn't know better.

 

 

   “There's a patient here - Sansa knows her - I think she's been in intensive care. Thought I might pop up and see how she's getting on,” he replies, and he keeps his eyes on his phone but his fingers have stalled halfway through the message to Clegane telling him mission accomplished. Maybe he should also tell him he's about to do something completely bloody stupid.

 

 

   “Intensive care? Oho no, not on your life, Stark,” Wylla ticks him off,

 

 

   “That's Nurse Tarly's domain, that - more than my ruddy job's worth sending you up there without an engraved invitation. You'll land me right in it. Best you pop off home and leave all that to your sister.”

 

 

   “Please, Wylla?” he lays it on thick, because he's made up his mind now and he wants to be past the point of no return well before Clegane responds to tell him he's being a twat and an arse and not to do it,

 

 

   “She's all on her own, and I've not been to see her yet, and I feel terrible about it - I should have gone ages ago but she's been so bad I thought I'd leave it until she was better and I've probably upset her. Sansa's been at me forever to come round. Couldn't you let me up just for a bit?”

 

 

   “If I let you up before breakfast rounds, Tarly will have my guts on a plate for her tea later,” Wylla says severely,

 

 

   “Can't be done.”

 

 

   “Well... I don't know about coming back...” Rickon says slowly, because she doesn't need to know that he means it fairly literally and not in the sense that it's a long ride and he's busy, since only one of those things is strictly true.

 

 

   “Tell you what...” Wylla says hesitantly, like she's about to bend the rules, and Rickon tips his head at her like a hopeful puppy to seal the deal, and she sighs and goes on a bit huffily,

 

 

   “Give it a rest, you're having your way already! If I set you up with a cuppa somewhere and two chairs pushed together d'you think you can keep out of the way until after breakfast? It'll be about an hour, maybe two. Then I can come and get you and you can go up and visit your Miss Lonely at a less indecent hour. Don't know why you think someone who's been poorly enough for intensive care wants to see your ugly mug at seven in the morning, be enough to send anyone back on the morphine drip if you ask me,” she grumbles the last but he knows he's in the clear so he beams at her.

 

 

   “That'd be brilliant, thanks ever so,” he says winningly, and she waves him off and tells him to wait until she gets back, and then leaves with the platelet package.

 

 

   Unwisely, he actually sits down to do the waiting.

 

 

   When she comes back for him, it's eleven and she wakes him up by pulling some of his front curls tight so he jerks upright and has to strangle the yelp that threatens when his whole body protests him moving about like he's all that when he just spent several hours collapsed haphazardly on a waiting room seat which was never meant to conform to the shape of any human arse.

 

 

   She looks far too pleased about it.

 

 

   “You were so peaceful I hadn't the heart to move you,” she coos with relish and he glares at her.

 

 

   “Some fucking healthcare practitioner you are,” he snaps, getting to his feet to stretch, wincing when everything pops and then stabbing a finger in her face,

 

 

   “If I ever need a hospital I'm going elsewhere!”

 

 

   “Good,” she says shortly,

 

 

   “No one wants to see your freckly cheeks in a billowy gown round these halls, ducky. Now, did you want to go up or not?”

 

 

   “Up wh - oh,” he remembers, and it hits him that he probably looks a state and he can only imagine his inbox is full of messages from Clegane to the merry tune of ' _bitch don't do it_ ', but he also feels that if he doesn't go now, he'll avoid it until the day he dies and then he'll forever be left with the guilt and the wondering.

 

 

   “Yeah, if now's alright?” he settles on, and she jerks her head down the corridor and says,

 

 

   “Follow the colour-chart, lines're on the floor, when you get to reception ask them where they're keeping her.”

 

 

   “Thanks, Wylla. Best to Wex,” he says, and she rolls her eyes and thrusts a plastic cup of hospital tea at him.

 

 

   “Sod off,” she tells him, and he just salutes her with the cup and takes a sip and then meanders on his way.

 

 

   He can't resist checking his phone in the elevator and sure enough Clegane's messages range from the professional, telling him he can drop the paperwork round later, to the disturbingly intimate, if that's the right word for someone who calls you a ' _fucking stupid cunt-addled streak of piss_ ' and tells you your life choices are complete crap via text message.

 

 

   Rickon doesn't disagree with it, he just needs to get this over with.

 

 

   Once he reaches intensive care, he approaches the reception desk and greets the nurse there as politely as he can.

 

 

   “Excuse me? Good morning, I wonder if you could - ”

 

 

   “Deliveries to A&E only, you've come too far,” she says without looking up from her chart, and Rickon frowns.

 

 

   “I'm off the clock,” he tells her curtly,

 

 

   “I just wanted to come up and check in on a family friend. Could you maybe tell me where she is?”

 

 

   “Who are you looking for?” she asks, putting down the chart and pulling out another chart, and Rickon resists the urge to tell her she's being bloody rude. She probably knows.

 

 

   “Shireen Baratheon,” he says clearly,

 

 

   “I was told she's in intensive care still, so - ”

 

 

   The nurse looks up and gives him the once-over and then breaks into a lovely smile, taking years off her face, and exclaims,

 

 

   “Oh, you'll be the knight in shining leathers then, eh? She'll be so pleased to see you, your sister's been telling us you'd try and make it down, come with me, come on - ” and she bustles over and leaves him no choice but to trail awkwardly in her wake, explaining,

 

 

   “Sorry I was a bit short with you, pet, I've been on a double shift and it's been a long night - there you are!”

 

 

   She gestures to a room with a closed door, and looks at him with bright expectation. There is a decidedly awkward moment of silence.

 

 

   “Oh right - shall I just make sure she's decent?” laughs the nurse, and Rickon shifts his attention to his boots as she knocks on the door and calls,

 

 

   “Shireen, love? Visitor to see you!”

 

 

   There is a low murmur of response, and the nurse draws back and nods at him, beaming.

 

 

   “Off you go then! Just let us know when you leave, would you?” she asks him, and Rickon nods at her, and then she's off, and he's pushing open the door through more force of will than anything else, and steeling himself for what he might have to see.

 

 

   She's petite.

 

 

   She's very, very pale. Her hair is dark, and long, the braid it's in ends somewhere past the edge of the blanket that's tucked around her waist, so he doesn't know how long exactly.

 

 

   Her eyes are a deep, deep blue. There is a scar covering almost half of her face and continuing down her neck.

 

 

   She looks exhausted, and apprehensive, but overall, the effect is calm and not overly clinical except for the hospital gown she's in and the monitors by her bedside.

 

 

   She's not hard to look at, but she makes the ghost of his eleven-year-old memory come alive in a way it hasn't before in his half-formed remembering and guilt-plagued dreams.

 

 

   “Hello,” she says quietly, not like she's shy but like she's tired. She has every bloody right to be.

 

 

   “Er - hello,” he manages, realising that he's just staring at her like a tit,

 

 

   “I'm Rickon. Rickon Stark? I er - you probably don't remember me at all, I don't think we ever really met, but my sister's been round with Myrcella, and - ”

 

 

   “I know who you are,” she tells him calmly, flicking her fingers at him in what seems to be as close to a gesture as she can get,

 

 

   “Won't you have a seat?”

 

 

   “Er - right, yeah,” he blunders, inelegantly getting settled on the edge of the chair next to her bed, and she turns her head a bit to look at him properly. It looks an effort.

 

 

   _She_ looks lovely. For someone who recently narrowly escaped death, that is.

 

 

   “I'm so glad you've come,” she says, with a slight frown that may be because he's just looking at her silently but might just as well be because he twitches a bit at her choice of words,

 

 

   “I've been wanting to thank you personally for helping to save my life.”

 

 

   “'S just a job,” he says unthinkingly, like the wanker he swears he isn't - at least not over this, he's got some bloody shame - and she frowns a bit harder.

 

 

   “I thought you volunteered for a charity..?” she asks leadingly,

 

 

   “I'm sure Sansa said - ”

 

 

   “I do, yeah - yes,” he amends, clearing his throat and nodding and trying not to sound so utterly stupid, keeping his eyes off her scars long enough to get his shit in order,

 

 

   “It was just - just an expression? I do. Volunteer, I mean. You don't have to thank me, I'm just glad you're on the mend.”

 

 

   He tries to look as sincere as he feels, and it lessens her frown somewhat, and she echoes his nod with a slightly weaker one of her own.

 

 

   “Thank you. I don't feel it, but they tell me I'm making great strides in the right direction,” she shares,

 

 

   “But if you hadn't gotten here in time, I'd be long in the ground. So thank you, for being there. I'd never even heard of blood bikers, but it's a wonderful idea. Have you been involved with it long?”

 

 

   “No, not - well, I suppose so? 'Bout a year?” he suddenly can't remember how long it's been, and he can't keep his eyes from straying onto the damage on her face, sure it can't be from what almost killed her, it looks old, badly healed but old, and a certain tightness comes over her expression around the eyes.

 

 

   “I see. Well, thank you, anyway. I'm sure you're very busy, you're clearly on your way back out, so you needn't think about staying with me. Someone will be here shortly, thank you for taking the time to visit,” she reels off, and although she doesn't move, there's something about the way she holds her body suddenly that's dismissive, like she'd be up and about and giving him the heave if she could stand on her own, like she'd like to turn her back on him and fidget with something in a meaningful way to send him the message that he needs to bugger off, and he frowns.

 

 

   “There's really no need to thank me - I should have come sooner, I just - do you not want me here?” he can't help but ask, overwhelmed by how expressively rejecting she's managing to be even though she's bedridden and is still making polite eye contact, and this time she meets his gaze defiantly.

 

 

   “I'm pleased to have had the opportunity to thank you in person - rest assured I'll be making a sizeable donation to your charity, but it's clear you have places to be,” she says rather stiffly, and Rickon glances down at himself.

 

 

   “What - the leathers? I got off the clock at 7, I've been waiting to be allowed up to see you, we only do night shifts, that's sort of the whole point of our thing - I don't have anywhere else to be right now,” he tells her as brightly as he can, because he doesn't want her to think he's neglecting his duties to sit here with her, and it warms him to the cockles that the idea of that was making her so uncomfortable, that's proper understanding and appreciation for what he and the lads do, right there.

 

 

   Her lips thin. It takes some doing because they're plump and rosy even if they are a bit chapped, so he takes it she means business.

 

 

   “I should rephrase,” she says carefully, coldly,

 

 

   “I'm very thankful for what you and your colleagues do. I think it's inspiring. I'm also very grateful to your sister for taking the time to come and see me so often with Myrcella, it's been a nice distraction from how boring hospital is, and - and everything,” and then she somehow draws herself up without moving at all and puts the final nail in it;

 

 

   “But you're clearly uncomfortable with my scars and I don't much fancy being stared at like second billing in the local freak-show right now, so you're very welcome to leave. My regards to you and everyone in your organisation, you do marvellous work. Thank you for stopping by.”

 

 

   “What the - I'm sorry, _what?_ ” he splutters, leaning forward and staring at her in complete bewilderment, and she just stares right back.

 

 

   “You - oh, _bugger me_ ,” he groans, scrubbing his hands over his face and leaning all the way back in the uncomfortable chair for a moment, looking right up into the unpleasant overhead lighting until his eyes blur and go spotty, and then he leans back in and folds his hands in front of him so he won't do something stupid with them instead, and tells her flat out,

 

 

   “I am really, _really_ sorry. I was trying not to stare at you, but I'm a tosser, and I couldn't help it, and now I've cocked this up like I knew I would. I am _really_ sorry I made you think - ” he can't repeat it, so instead he just spreads his hands helplessly and tells her,

 

 

   “You're a stunner. And I'm an arse. And I think I thought I'd remember you properly if I met you properly, but I don't think I ever actually did really see you up close because I'd definitely remember all of this. I'm sorry.”

 

 

   He actually manages to punctuate _'this'_ with a gesture towards her entire prone form. She doesn't rip his head off though. She just looks confused.

 

 

   “When would we ever have met?” she asks, bewilderment now writ large on her face,

 

 

   “I know we used to live quite near the Starks, but Sansa told me you'd have been much too young for our paths to have crossed before we moved away.”

 

 

   “Er - ”

 

 

   _\- you bastard don't do it, don't fucking -_

“No, we never - never actually met? We wouldn't have. I only ever saw you the once. Just before you moved. I er - ”

 

 

   _\- you stupid fucking tosspot don't do it -_

“You probably don't remember - you might not even know, probably not? I shouldn't think so? Er - ”

 

 

   _\- bloody hell what are you **doing** -_

“It's funny really - well, no, it's not, it's really not, that's why I shopped them for it - ”

 

 

   “Shopped who? What on earth are you on about?” she demands, and there's a slight hint of panic in her eyes now.

 

 

   “Er - my brothers? Well, my two oldest brothers, and my foster brother, Theon - he's not anymore though, I'm fairly certain dad tossed him out on his ear after what happened with your dad, and I honestly don't blame him - ”

 

 

   “What happened with my father?” she demands, and her voice cracks like a ruler over dry knuckles and he loses control.

 

 

   “Well - we were all out in the evening because Theon wanted to show us something and turns out what he wanted to show us was the view of your bedroom window from the road, because he'd figured out he could see you changing 'cause of the contrast what with the lights on inside and how dark it was outside?”

 

 

   Her eyes are wide and her face colourless except for the raw red of her lips but he's not done buggering himself with a splintered fencepost just yet.

 

 

   “And I can't have been more than eleven I don't think but I knew that was effed up so when it turned out to be true I clocked him, and I s'pose I wasn't the worst child ever spawned because I ran in to tell your dad to tell you to close up your curtains so people on the street couldn't perv at you anymore, and then _your_ dad dragged me back home to tell _our_ dad, and we all got it in the neck and rightly so. And then Theon got kicked out and I think your family moved not long after.”

 

 

   She is staring at him without blinking as though he is completely insane.

 

 

   “Er - so yeah. You've no reason to remember me, and I barely even remembered that happened with your dad back then so that must have been you? But Sansa was talking and then later when I heard your name I recognised it and it sort of knocked me for six a bit because I hadn't thought of that in years and suddenly it was like god playing connect the dots with people and my head, and it was all a bit buggered, but I know now I definitely never _actually_ met you or really saw you because I'd have remembered if I had, even if it _was_ donkey's years ago. You're gorgeous.”

 

 

   “Do you have any idea,” she begins, in a thin, strained voice,

 

 

   “The _massive_ _bollocking_ **_complex_** you gave me?”

 

 

   “Wha - ” he utters, half-formed, but she doesn't seem to notice or care.

 

 

   “I was _sixteen_ fucking years old with a giant scar on my face, I was already bullied so badly everywhere I went that I could hardly stand the thought of myself - do you have the _faintest_ inkling what it did to me, hearing some little toe-rag knock on the door _just_ to tell my dad to tell his daughter to pull the curtains so people couldn't see from the road?”

 

 

   Her eyes are bright with tears now, but brighter still with unbridled fury, and he leans back away from her weak attempt at sitting up further to get in his face, her hand a shaking fist in the blanket over her lap.

 

 

   “Can you even begin to understand what that did to what was left of my confidence, being told that even _pervy teenage **wankers**_ on the street didn't want to see me from that distance, even if I _was_ in the nip? Do you have _any_ idea?”

 

 

   “I don't,” he says quickly, honest and defensive,

 

 

   “But I didn't mean it like that - I was only eleven, I grew up with sisters, I just knew what Theon was doing was wrong and I didn't know any other way in the moment to fix it - I couldn't have known it'd come back to you like that!”

 

 

   “Well it did!” she shouts, and then winces and recoils, and he bites hard on his lip and clenches his hands so he won't make things worse by reaching out to try and help or some other god-forsakenly stupid thing, and then she glares at him and hisses,

 

 

   “I'm not saying I wanted to be perved on - I'm not crazy, I know that's not a compliment, it's vile, but I was already feeling low enough about the way I looked and being told that even pervs would rather not have to look at me landed me in fucking therapy for four sodding years!”

 

 

   “I'm sorry!” he cries, not knowing what else to say, pent up guilt spilling over into anger and frustration,

 

 

   “I'm sorry that's how it made you feel, but that's not how I ever - that's not what I meant! I just knew it was a violation and I didn't have the words for that so I thought if I told the relevant adults, they'd handle it so that wouldn't happen to you anymore, and I stand by that - but if it makes you feel any better I know for a fact the only reason Theon would have been that smug about figuring out he could spy on you and dragging us all along is because he thought he was on to a good thing, and for what it's worth he probably was as far as that went because if you looked anything like you do now at sixteen you were a bloody vision!”

 

 

   “Oh, really?” she challenges, and it's as vicious as it gets even coming from someone in a hospital bed,

 

 

   “I'm lying here stitched up like a kipper, I've not had a proper wash since someone tried to do away with me, so I probably smell like one, too, and I'm in a bloody hospital gown! Not to mention I've likely got bags under my eyes you could take with you on holiday and I can't brush my own bloody hair so it's not been done since your sister did it for me three days ago. If there's meant to be a compliment there, I can't fucking find it!”

 

 

   “No,” he tells her, like a tosser,

 

 

   “For someone who nearly died, you look a treat. And I have no basis for comparison, I can't remember anything about what you looked like then other than you were pale, and I have wracked my brain trying!”

 

 

   “Pull the other one - only don't, they tell me I'm fragile, and I can't get up yet to kick their teeth in,” she snaps,

 

 

   “What are you still here for? I am genuinely thankful for your effort to keep me alive, but hanging about here telling me a load of old bollocks about what a pretty corpse I'd have made isn't going to erase the issues you and your brothers gave me as a vulnerable teenager, whether you meant to or not!”

 

 

   “You're not vulnerable now,” he remarks unthinkingly, and he wonders how much vitriol such a small person can hold when they've recently had seams put in that might burst, wishing his peripheral vision didn't pick up nearly so many signs of it even though he is doing his level best to keep his eyes on hers.

 

 

   “Piss off,” she hisses,

 

 

   “Tosser!”

 

 

   She's not wrong there, but he tries again all the same.

 

 

   “I'm just - I'm sorry.”

 

 

   “Sorry doesn't pay for therapy!” she fires back, and he frowns at her.

 

 

   “Do you want me to pay for that?” he can't help asking, desperate to fix this somehow now that he's gone and fouled it up just like he knew he would, and she looks doubly disgusted and upset.

 

 

   “What the - _no!_ Just _leave_ \- I'll be making a large contribution to your charity, thank you for your time,” she bites off,

 

 

   “Thank your eleven-year-old self for doing the morally right thing. It's not his fault it turned into a massive cock-up. Or yours. I don't - I don't _want_ anything,” and she doesn't say ' _from you_ ', but he thinks it's implied, and she turns her face away before finishing quietly, scratchily,

 

 

   “I just want to be alone.”

 

 

   “I didn't mean to upset you,” he promises, and her hand twitches like she wants to wave him away but hasn't got the strength.

 

 

   “I know,” she murmurs, and he wants to get up and move to the other side so he can see if she's crying, wants to turn her face back so he can see and maybe feel if her scars are as textured as they look, but he doesn't. He just sits there like a bump on a log, perched on the edge of his seat like a prize-winning tit.

 

 

   “I'm really sorry for all the shit you've been through,” he tells her firmly, after a minute of complete silence, getting up,

 

 

   “And I'm really sorry for the parts of it I contributed to unknowingly.”

 

 

   “You did the right thing,” she says, toneless and low,

 

 

   “And you're doing the right thing now. You saved me. It all evens out in the end.”

 

 

   “I don't think so,” he insists,

 

 

   “So if you ever need anything, I'm here. You can get my number off Sansa.”

 

 

   “That won't be necessary, really,” Shireen rasps, and he's about to argue when the door opens and a robust middle-aged woman enters, looking from Shireen to Rickon with surprise.

 

 

   “Shireen?” she asks, more like an announcement that she's here, but laden with feeling, and Shireen turns to look at her, tears on her cheeks, and she sounds small and sad when she whimpers,

 

 

   “Marya?” and then the matronly woman is at her side, edging Rickon out of the way with an unfriendly hip and soothing her,

 

 

   “It's alright, lovey, I'm here, you're alright now,” and she looks up at Rickon like he's only the shitting devil and tells him in the stern voice of a woman who's probably got sons,

 

 

   “I'll take it from here, pet,” and there's a warning in the casual endearment that he doesn't dare challenge.

 

 

   He only stays long enough to say,

 

 

   “I hope you feel better, Shireen, and remember; anything.”

 

 

   Then he's off.

 

 

   He doesn't tell Sansa about the visit. She doesn't ask. He does go home and get blind pissing drunk though, and cancels his shifts for the next week.

 

 

   In the morning it's like he remembers her even better somehow, pale and battered and proud and hurt.

 

 

   A fucking _vision_.

 

 

   He doesn't have the guts to ask Sansa if Shireen ever asks for his number. He certainly doesn't hear from her.

 

 

   He's not sure he wants to. He's now convinced he could never contribute anything positive to her life, and if anyone deserves good things coming their way, it's surely her.

 

 

   He does send her flowers though. Every week until Sansa tells him she's out of hospital, and then even that tenuous connection is gone.

 

 

   Just woefully not forgotten. He'll never be able to forget her again.

 

 

   -


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

   Rickon feels like bloody murder.

 

 

   It's far too bright before twelve noon and sunnies do bugger-all to spare the head he has on him after last night, and to top it he's stood about outside getting stickier by the minute trying not to look like the world's most ungrateful bastard, because Sansa and Myrcella worked really hard to throw this fundraiser and it's not their fault it's unseasonably warm and he's got a splitting headache after going out with Arya and Gendry yesterday to take his mind off things.

 

 

   It's not the girls' fault the weather forecast predicted drizzle so he rode here in full gear because Sansa thought it'd be a nice display to have the bikes stood about in case the sun came out - she wasn't to know it would, or how fucking miserable he'd feel stood about in leathers because it didn't occur to him he might want to change for comfort so he's not got the option since they're in a sodding park - a real eye-catcher, and Sansa got the permit specially and it's a lovely sunny day so there's loads of people out and that's a good thing when you're out fundraising with tables and little umbrellas and what-have-you but _bugger_ him Rickon's fed up.

 

 

   He's no one to blame but himself. He could have driven with the girls but their every giggle is like ground glass on his tongue and he wants to lie face-down in the grass and expire like a bit of old broccoli at the back of the fridge. He could have waited on the weather instead of trusting the met office - bunch of unreliable bastards, he's half convinced they're just pulling all that old cobblers about pressure fronts and cold surges out of their arses, it might as well be astrology for how often they get it wrong - or brought a change of clothes, he's got panniers. Instead here he is broiling like an overdone ham and brooding about last night.

 

 

   Thank fuck the girls are running this show, because between his newfound hatred for all human beings and Clegane's presence, between them they'd do nothing but stand about glowering if left to their own devices. Rickon is fairly certain that Sansa's enthusiasm for looking and cooing at every single child who walks past and complimenting them somehow has netted their collection box about half of what's in there from flattered parents, and Myrcella flirting with everything on two legs is probably responsible for the rest.

 

 

   “We s'posed to stand here all fucking day?” Clegane grunts in an undertone that could probably remove graffiti from pebble-dash,

 

 

   “My bollocks have been stuck together for an hour and I want a cold pint.”

 

 

   Rickon just rolls his neck and mumbles under his breath. The gist of it is agreement though. Across the way Myrcella is leaning against one of the bikes and laughing ingratiatingly at some middle-aged type who's probably more interested in her cleavage than in signing up or sticking his hand in his pocket, but there's no way of knowing. That's how they got Bronn on board back when. He's down the path chatting up someone in shorts, and Rickon wonders how he does it. No good ever comes from talking to people, it is proven fact. Rickon's done the legwork personally.

 

 

   “Sansa's got some kind of collection goal,” he reminds Clegane, who probably knows this just as well as he knows most things to do with Sansa by now and absolutely every bloody thing about their branch of this blood biker lark, seeing as he's their full-time controller, but maybe if he jogs his memory he'll stop complaining.

 

 

   Not that he isn't making valid points, but Rickon wants everyone in the world to shut their gobs and leave him in a cool dark room for about thirty six hours until he feels human again.

 

 

   “'S for representation,” he murmurs, doing his best to smile at the family who walks by and grabs a pamphlet, and he can feel the gravitational pull of Clegane rolling his eyes.

 

 

   “Should just have the girls do it - they've got it all sorted. 'M not cut out to be bloody window-dressing,” Clegane mutters hatefully, and Rickon cuts his eyes to the bright smile Sansa turns on them both as she whirls about in a halo of red hair and waves at them, saying something to the family she's talking to about,

 

 

   “ - our controller, Mr. Clegane, and my brother Rickon, who volunteers full time! We can always use more people - ” and both Rickon and Clegane correct their posture and nod back. The people Sansa's talking to look interested and enthused. Rickon doesn't blame them - her enthusiasm is contagious. This whole do is her brainchild.

 

 

   Rickon's brain, meanwhile, feels like bits of it are falling away like an old sponge, and he has never been more grateful for sunnies so the people passing and taking pamphlets off the table in front of him can't see his dead-eyed stare.

 

 

   He's just focusing on the middle distance to try and settle his stomach and keep his mind off how all the sweat that was trickling ominously down his back earlier today has now settled in the crack of his arse when he has to steady himself on the edge of the precariously tilted white plastic lawn table that's partially sinking into the grass as it is, because his eyes are playing tricks on him and they're fucking cheating.

 

 

   She walks in beauty across the main lawn like a vision in white with her hair floating around her in the light breeze plucking at her dress. She is clearly not wearing a bra.

 

 

   “Steady on, lad, if you're going to hit the deck sit down and put your head between your knees and then we'll tell your sister you've got heatstroke and be off down the pub for that pint,” Clegane tells him, and Rickon swallows even though his mouth is drier than that soulless thing Bran made once and had the brass ones to call a sponge-cake and serve for tea round his place, shaking his head.

 

 

   She's surrounded by a retinue of lads Rickon can only presume are some of the same squaddies and sailors Sansa and Myrcella were squealing about months ago coming home from hospital visits, and she's drifting over like her feet barely touch the ground. He feels like she might as well be standing on his chest.

 

 

   That'd leave him looking up her skirt though, and he immediately regrets the thought.

 

 

   “ _Shireen!_ ” Sansa and Myrcella shriek in concert, and Rickon winces and hears Clegane do the same as the girls rush to greet her and her whole group, which he now sees is being brought up at the rear by an older couple consisting of a robust gent with a stern but jolly glint in his eye and a smashing beard, and the matronly lady who sent Rickon packing that day at the hospital and probably would have snapped him over her thigh if he'd protested.

 

 

   The girls all hug and take their sweet bloody time making introductions across the board, while Rickon stares through all the limbs and smiles for the glimpses of Shireen Baratheon, in the flesh, among the living.

 

 

   “It's so lovely to see you, I'm so glad you made time,” Sansa is saying, her arm linked with Shireen's, and the older gent smiles at them benevolently and says,

 

 

   “Aye, well - what's important to Shireen's important to us. Now where do I sign me old bones up?”

 

 

   “Really, you'd like to?” Myrcella cries, thrilled, and the woman smiles and pats his arm and tells her,

 

 

   “Take him off my hands a few nights a month, lovey, be good for 'im now retirement's started to pinch!”

 

 

   “We're all here to sign up,” says one of the lads with them, stocky chap who looks alarmingly like the older gent, and Rickon squints and realises all of them do.

 

 

   “That's brilliant, I'm so pleased, right this way, we'll do it at the table - Sandor, do you have the - oh, good,” Sansa trills, marching over and taking the register from Clegane, setting it all up and then giving a branded pen to the bearded gent and saying,

 

 

   “It's all there on the form for you, you can just have at it!”

 

 

   He chuckles and hands the pen to the woman, whom Rickon assumes is his wife, and shakes his head.

 

 

   “Thank you kindly, but ladies first - my Marya'd love to sign up to be one o' them controller types, if you don't mind - doesn't get enough of it at home, I suppose!” he laughs, and his wife swats him on the arm but takes the pen and bends to start filling in the form, murmuring,

 

 

   “Well, now all my boys have flown the nest I've got to do something with my time!” and her husband chuckles richly and pats her on the back fondly, replying,

 

 

   “Right you are, love, and we couldn't ask for a worthier hobby, as I hear - which one's the young man saved our Shireen?”

 

 

   “Sansa's brother, Davos - Rickon Stark,” Shireen says softly, but it seems to echo on and on through the empty recesses of Rickon's skull, even though she's right in front of him essentially, on Sansa's arm and looking directly at him, pointing out,

 

 

   “This is him.”

 

 

   “Ah! Good lad!” the man - Davos, must be - exclaims, and grabs Rickon's sweaty palm to shake it firmly, grip strong,

 

 

   “You know, if we can ever do aught for you, you just let us know, alright? This girl's like one of our own, has been since she was a tot - doesn't bear thinking we might'a lost her! You did a bloody good thing!”

 

 

   “I - yeah, thanks,” Rickon manages faintly, feeling like his eyes have possibly glazed over, stuck as they are on Shireen's little smile as she observes silently, and then the woman pinches Davos' forearm and says,

 

 

   “Here y'are, love - let the boy alone and get this done,” and Davos squeezes Rickon's hand a final time and then takes over the pen and bends to do his own form.

 

 

   “Shireen,” he hears himself say,

 

 

   “You look...”

 

 

_\- bloody fantastic -_

 

 

   “... better.”

 

 

   “Thank you. Amazing what a bit of a scrub and some proper clothes can do for morale,” she responds, dry and tart, but not unkind, not like he's annoyed her, not like they parted last after he made her cry and she told him to piss off.

 

 

   He's tempted to think it's unfair of her to call attention to what she's wearing when she's barely wearing it, but it's a free country and he is _not_ complaining.

 

 

   Myrcella is busy handing out pamphlets and Sansa is choreographing the mass sign-up of all the people Shireen's brought with her, and even Clegane's been roped into a conversation with what looks like the oldest of the blokes, something about the army, and Rickon is just stood there looking at the deep blue calm of Shireen Baratheon's eyes and feeling sticky and overwhelmed and inadequate.

 

 

   “You don't look well though,” she tells him, no judgment, just fact, and he pastes on a weak smile and tries not to fuck up an innocuous exchange in front of at least seven people who seem to think she can walk on water. She probably can, she looks light as a feather. He can probably fit her whole waist in both hands.

 

 

   “No, er - long night,” he fumbles, raising his voice a bit hoping to catch Sansa's attention and adding,

 

 

   “Actually, think I might have a touch of heatstroke? Bit daft, I came down in my leathers, didn't think it'd be sunny,” and instantly Sansa is there feeling his forehead and fussing and insisting he go home and that he shouldn't ride, and it's the work of moments to brush her off and reassure her and tell her he'll just pop home for a bit and she can give him a ring when she needs help packing up, and then he's made his excuses and he's off, trying to ignore the way his clothes cling to him and chafe, and the way Shireen looks at him like she sees right through him.

 

 

   He jumps straight in the shower the minute he gets in the door and gets under the water before it's had a chance to even think about approaching a sensible temperature, but the shocking cold is exactly what he needs and he sticks his head under and stays there.

 

 

   He never should have gone out yesterday.

 

 

   It wasn't even any good - Arya was no fucking help at all, not only did she not distract him, she actively nagged for details about all this Baratheon drama because she won't just go to Sansa herself to get the hot gossip, and so he had to sit there and let her drag it out of him and finally four pints in she got to the bottom of why he was being so difficult about it, and all she had to say was,

 

 

_“Well never mind her then - what do you want to go mooning around over some ugly bint who wants nothing to do with you for? Get your head out of your arse, fuck's sake.”_

 

 

   To which he said a few choice things. After which Gendry intervened so they wouldn't be banned from his and Arya's favourite local pub, and Rickon marched home fuming and got about three hours of sleep before Sansa woke him at the crack of dawn to start setting up the fundraiser stuff.

 

 

   Downstairs, his doorbell rings and Shaggy goes mental.

 

 

   He almost decides to ignore it, because the water's just getting to a point where he can maybe start thinking about something other than his bloody headache, but whoever's at the door is as persistent as the image of Shireen in that floaty dress, and Shaggy won't shut up, and today is apparently just meant to be bloody awful, so he gets out, scrubs a towel over his head and nethers, and pulls on the closest pair of undies he can see, and stalks down the stairs, grabbing Shaggy and dragging him away from the door.

 

 

   It isn't easy. Shaggydog is as tall as Rickon on his hind legs and he really wants to say hello to whoever's leaning on the doorbell. Probably the postman. Nigel will just have to put up with Rickon almost in the nip for however long it takes to hand over what won't fit in the slot.

 

 

   “Fucking _hell_ , Shaggy, get down - sorry Nigel, can you just - _oh fuck me_ \- ” he ends up saying through the crack in the door as he opens it to see Shireen Baratheon on his doorstep.

 

 

   His hand slips on Shaggy's collar and it's all the bastard needs to barrel through, and Rickon's shout is about a second too late, but instead of bowling her over and shattering her like a porcelain Meissen figurine, Shaggydog flops down in front of her and lolls about like a giant boneless twat of a puppy, and she just giggles sunshine and light and says,

 

 

   “Hello, precious, aren't you gorgeous?” and slides her foot out of her sandal to rub Shaggy's tummy briefly before putting it back on and looking up at Rickon.

 

 

   “I'm sorry, were you busy?” she asks like he's not in his underwear with mostly-soaked hair dripping all over the place, and then she adds, leadingly,

 

 

   “Could I come in for a bit?”

 

 

   He just steps aside and she walks in calmly, Shaggy trailing her like she's got bacon-filled pockets which is absurd because she clearly doesn't have any pockets in that outfit, and Rickon clears his throat awkwardly and runs a hand through his hair before remembering it's wet and snarled and getting stuck for a moment and then pulling and wincing so when she looks round at him he's got a look on his face like a slapped arse and he's sure his hair is standing on end like it's partly electrocuted.

 

 

   “Are you feeling better?” she asks him, looking slightly concerned,

 

 

   “You still seem a bit hot and bothered. I can leave, if you like.”

 

 

   “No, I'm - I'm fine,” he croaks, moving from the kitchen doorway past her to the sink and getting himself a glass of water which he drinks most of out of sheer bloody panic before realising he's the world's least competent host and turning back to ask,

 

 

   “Er - did you - want something..?”

 

 

   “I thought I should come and apologise for the way things ended, last we spoke,” she says without preamble, eyes fixed on his,

 

 

   “Having your life suddenly turn into tabloid fodder provides perspective, and I wanted to tell you I'm sorry for being harsh about all that business when we were younger,” and then she smiles and adds,

 

 

   “Obviously you had the makings of a proper little knight in shining armour even back then.”

 

 

   “I was a terrible little bastard,” tumbles out of him,

 

 

   “'S why my parents sent me off to boarding school first chance they got.”

 

 

   “Yet you knew enough to tell your brothers off for perving on a girl you didn't even know,” she points out softly,

 

 

   “You can't have been... what was it... _'the worst child ever spawned'_?”

 

 

   Her laugh is divine.

 

 

   She is definitely not wearing underwear.

 

 

   “Anyway - ” she adjusts one thin white strap over her shoulder, and turns out he was wrong, because the fabric hitches up and drags close over her hip and there's the faint outline of a bit of black string or something, and he puts his glass on the counter much harder than he meant to as she finishes,

 

 

   “ - I'm sorry I tossed you out on your ear like that.”

 

 

   “No, don't be! I understand why - fuck's sake, Shireen, I can't imagine what you were dealing with, I just - what a fucking _nightmare!_ You're - are you alright now? Much as you can be?” he blurts, trying to find something to do with his arms that both looks and feels natural while she nods slowly.

 

 

   “Much as I can be,” she tells him quietly, measured off like it's practiced,

 

 

   “There isn't going to be a court case because all the involved are dead. Father's back from his posting trying to sort everything out - he had to get special permission to come back sooner, so it took a while. I'm as healed as I'll ever be, and I've been making headway in therapy, trying to work through it. I'm getting there.”

 

 

   “Good! That's - seriously, I'm really pleased you won't have to go to court or anything - Sansa's court case was hell, I wouldn't wish that on you, I'm glad you can just - just move on with your life, you know? That's really good. I can't believe you're doing so well,” he tells her sincerely, experimenting with leaning on the counter and abandoning it immediately because it is perhaps the least casual pose in the world, and she frowns at him.

 

 

   “Thank you,” she says slowly,

 

 

   “Rickon... are you alright?”

 

 

   “No,” he sighs, crossing then uncrossing his arms and finally just admitting,

 

 

   “No - I'm trying really hard not to stare at you and I can't.”

 

 

   “What - ” she begins, and then she widens her eyes and says, a little puzzled,

 

 

   “But we're having a conversation - you're allowed to look at me for that. I won't bite your head off.”

 

 

   “Not like this I'm not,” he laughs, hearing as well as feeling the exhausted hysteria,

 

 

   “ _Fuck_ , Shireen,” and he pulls at his hair some more but it does eff-all to stop him telling the ugly truth,

 

 

   “Your dress is practically see-through, and I really want to see through it!”

 

 

   “If people are looking at my chest, they're not looking at the scars,” she tells him unrepentantly, as though this is a tried and tested line of defence that has become mundane to the point where she doesn't mind copping to it, and he tries crossing his arms again because she is so close and he badly wants to do some copping of his own and that's not acceptable.

 

 

   “I'm looking at _all_ of you,” he confesses earnestly - and his mouth is dry as sand again even though he just drank a litre of water, what the fuck is that about? - and he gives up entirely and just stands in his kitchen in his underwear which is getting damp for reasons that have nothing to do with the fact that his hair is still dripping all over the floor,

 

 

   “Or bloody close to, any rate - bloody _hell_ , did you know it was that see-through when you got dressed? I mean - your choice, no judgment, I just - _fuck_ me - ”

 

 

   “You're not looking at all of me,” she protests, and he frowns at her and tries to understand why she'd argue that when he has abandoned all pretence and is essentially ogling her from head to toe.

 

 

   “I'm... not?” he asks stupidly, and she presses her lips together briefly.

 

 

   “No,” she says like she's made up her mind, and then like it's a challenge,

 

 

   “But you could be.”

 

 

   “I could what?” he echoes faintly, and she looks decided and asks clearly,

 

 

   “Do you have a bedroom? Somewhere with curtains, maybe?”

 

 

   “Upstairs, but I...” he mumbles, completely bewildered, staring after her in shock as she leaves the kitchen, calling,

 

 

   “Can you let the dog out?”

 

 

   He has never moved so quickly in his entire life but shoving Shaggydog out into the back garden is no easy task because apparently he'd rather join Shireen upstairs too, and once he's done that and Shaggy has loped off in a huff, it occurs to Rickon that he should probably wash the dog saliva off his hands, and by then he's convinced himself that he's having a stroke in instalments or that she's waiting in his room to kill him, and he's almost afraid to climb the stairs, but he forces himself to after locking the front door.

 

 

   She's not actually in his room. She is in the en suite, door ajar slightly, and he takes the chance to straighten the bed Sansa made for him this morning because she claims hangovers stink up the house when the bed isn't freshly made afterwards, and then tries to pull some of the moisture out of his hair with his discarded towel from earlier, but it does about no good, and finally he just perches on the edge of his bed and waits for whatever Shireen's decided to do. His curtains are still drawn and the room is cool and silent and dim.

 

 

   She comes out barefoot but otherwise as she was. He doesn't know what she was doing in the bathroom, she seems unchanged, but she looks determined.

 

 

   “You said, in the hospital,” she reminds him, soft but firm,

 

 

   “That you'd been wracking your brain trying to remember what I looked like, back then.”

 

 

   He nods.

 

 

   “I looked like this,” she says, and twitches up the hem of her dress,

 

 

   “Only with fewer scars.”

 

 

   She pulls the thin white dress over her head and off and stands there in knickers that might as well not exist.

 

 

   They're black as her hair, which is still floating around her, longer than he ever suspected. All the rest of her is creamy pale, but her eyes shine blue and the scars on her face are silver and grey and there are streaks of red, still-healing scars on her abdomen, her hip, like she's been stabbed or burned or both.

 

 

   “Bloody hell,” he breathes, and she spreads her arms and then lets them fall to her sides again, the dress dangling from her hand.

 

 

   “Measurements and weight unchanged since I was sixteen. Never got any taller, either. Bringing back any memories?” she asks, and he can hear the joke but _now_ she sounds vulnerable.

 

 

   “No,” he manages, raspy and thick,

 

 

   “Nothing. I didn't - I was - _fuck me_ , if I'd been a few years older I'd have been knocking on your door after that for _completely_ different reasons...”

 

 

   “Glad you weren't scarred for life by the experience,” she says with a bit of a smile, shaking out her dress and then slipping it back over her head and adjusting the straps, and then she looks at him with genuine gratitude like he wasn't the one who just got a free show, and says,

 

 

   “You're the best of your brothers, Rickon. Definitely one of the best blokes I've ever met. Thanks for everything.”

 

 

   She turns to leave, but he sees the light spring to her eye and knows it's not a reflection.

 

 

   “Shireen - what the - you're _leaving_?”

 

 

   She clears her throat before replying but doesn't turn back round.

 

 

   “Yes, I thought I'd go home - I told everyone I was tired, they're all still at the park - ” and she raises her hand to touch her face and he hears her voice break on the last word and suddenly he's behind her and he's sliding the strap back up onto her shoulder where it slipped down after she moved and begging her,

 

 

   “Please don't cry,” and she turns around and it's too late for that.

 

 

   “It's not your fault,” she says, like he's the one needs comforting,

 

 

   “I just thought - I wouldn't have had _these_ scars back then. Now I'm scarred _all over_. Who wants to look at that?”

 

 

   “I did - I bloody _do_ \- ” he amends, because it's still true, and so is,

 

 

   “ _I_ want to, Shireen, and then I want to stick my head under your skirt and my _tongue_ in you - holy _crap_ , is it not fucking obvious I've been trying to ignore a raging semi over you since the sodding _hospital?_ I'm only _barely_ in my underwear here, love, and that's not me tooting my own horn like a twat, that's because you're gorgeous and you were _literally_ just down to your knickers and there's not much of _them_ either, and you can do what you like with that, but don't bloody tell _me_ no one wants to look at you!”

 

 

   She stares up at him with tears rolling down her face, and he sighs and reaches out, wiping them away with tender fingers, and then leans down and kisses her scarred cheek.

 

 

   “Anyone would be lucky to have you, Shireen, _all_ of you. Not just the parts that've not seen much of life. Alright?” he says, as honest and reassuring as he can be, what with the not inconsiderable distraction of his less emotionally sensitive half.

 

 

   “Do you mean that?” she asks in a small voice, and he nods and smiles.

 

 

   “I really do,” he promises,

 

 

   “I know a teenage me would've disgraced himself over you in some bushes - mostly-grown-up me's about to and he's had years of practice holding it in because I hate doing laundry all the time!”

 

 

   She laughs, so he does too, pleased that joking at his own expense is working, but in all honesty she is practically leaning on him and perhaps mostly-grown-up Rickon isn't that far removed from his teenage self because it's difficult to concentrate on being mature and considerate like this.

 

 

   It's a lot more difficult when she does lean on him, leans up, and kisses him.

 

 

   “Shireen, hang on,” he manages against her lovely rosy lips, and immediately she's backed off and on her way out, shouting,

 

 

   “I _knew_ you didn't bloody mean it, you fucking coward - ”

 

 

   “What - no - I just - ” and against his better judgment he grabs her arm and pulls her back, and she hardly resists, probably can't, he can feel how light she is in his grasp, negligible weight, and he raises his voice only to be heard over her betrayed tones and insists,

 

 

   “Listen - Shireen, _listen_ \- I just don't want you to think you _have_ to do anything or - or like you have to go for me because you can't do better, or anything, _anything_ at all other than that you _really_ want me, because if you do, that's fucking _brilliant_ , but - but not if it's because you're upset, okay? I'm not going to take advantage of you!”

 

 

   She is quiet and still, and he lets go of her slowly, smoothing his hand up her arm where he grabbed her, pushing her hair off her shoulder, pulling her dress strap back up again, because he can't do anything else to make her feel better, and she watches him with a clarity that wasn't there before.

 

 

   “I'm not going to take advantage of you,” he repeats quietly, just as much for himself, because he really does want her so badly he's starting to feel shaky with it, and she shakes her head but keeps her eyes on his.

 

 

   “I know,” she says softly, and steps in and leans up, and kisses him sweetly, and his mouth falls open in a whimper and his knees buckle, but the moment his arse makes contact with the edge of his bed, she's on his lap, and he really can hold her entire waist in both hands but he can't hold on to his self control, so he kisses her with all the joy and hope in him, and lets her tug on his hair, and then it's easy to fall back and slide his hands to her thighs and then shift her up so she's knelt over him, and she smoothes down the front of her dress with her hands and breathes deeply, looking down on him with trembling lips, and he drags down her hand and kisses her fingers and promises her,

 

 

   “I won't make you take it off. I won't make you do anything,” and she nods and bites her lip, and only pulls her dress up far enough to realise her knickers are in the way, and then she slips off him to the side and he follows her and makes sure to keep his gaze on hers when they both lift her legs up so he can slide the inconsequential bit of black down them and off, and then he flops back down and lets her climb back where she was, and kisses the inside of her upper thigh and says,

 

 

   “You're fucking magic,” and then he does what he's been thinking about since he saw her glide over the lawn in broad daylight like Helen across the fucking water, and she gasps like she still didn't quite expect him to follow through until the very last second.

 

 

   Just for that, he follows through her first and grips her tight when she moves like she thinks they're done and makes her bear down so he can prove he's not fucking about here, and the way her legs clench either side of his torso and he can feel her entire body constrict when she shrieks his name loudly enough that there's the faint echo of Shaggydog howling in the back garden in reply is bliss, and he does not care that he'll be doing this round of laundry.

 

 

   He'll do laundry for the rest of his life to hear her sound like she's surprised herself because he surprised her, and he does a proper job of it, too, until she's twitching and trembling and her voice is faint when she says,

 

 

   “ _Rickon_... Rickon, _please_...” and then he lays her out carefully, pulling her skirt down and lying next to her to look at her glazed eyes and heaving chest adoringly, and he can't help stroking her cheek and grinning like a prize idiot.

 

 

   “You smug bastard,” she breathes, sounding winded but happy enough, and he'd agree, but she pulls his hair and he's helpless against her, kissing her back delightedly, and somewhere in there her leg brushes against his crotch and she asks breathlessly,

 

 

   “Did you..?”

 

 

   “First time you did,” he tells her, and she looks up at him solemnly.

 

 

   “That was above and beyond the call of duty,” she says, and he is slightly offended because it sort of implies he did something special for her or she doesn't think he got enough out of it to warrant his reaction, and that is complete codswallop.

 

 

   “I don't think so,” he argues,

 

 

   “It's not like I was missing anything - I had the best seat in the house, why wouldn't I enjoy the performance?”

 

 

   “I think I had the best seat in the house,” she says, and it's somehow suggestive and cheeky but serious all at once, and he laughs, but then she props herself up a little and he backs off, and she looks down at him, frowning.

 

 

   “But... your hands were on me the whole time..?” she mumbles, like she's working it out, and he shrugs.

 

 

   “I was ready to go the minute I saw you at the park. Then suddenly you're in my kitchen and next thing I know you're taking your kit off in my bedroom, and then you don't mind me living out the fantasy I've had since we met properly at the hospital and you were clearly just wearing that gown thing and you were telling me off,” he explains, and then smiles when he sees the soft, open look on her face and admits,

 

 

   “And I really, _really_ liked you saying my name like that.”

 

 

   “So...” she says slowly, propping herself up properly and fidgeting with the hem of her dress,

 

 

   “The recipe is...” and she pulls it off over her head and tosses it aside, looking at him with a momentary defiance which only lasts as far as he manages to hold in his whine, and then she smiles and continues,

 

 

   “Getting my kit off, and saying...” and she reaches to pull him down over her and whispers in his ear,

 

 

   “ _Rickon_...” and he shudders.

 

 

   “ _Yes_ , yes, just - only - _happier_ \- um - ” he tells her, knowing he sounds like a tosser who can't string two words together, but she laughs and pulls him down to kiss him, smiling beautifully, and they move together for a moment and then she pulls away and says,

 

 

   “Get your kit off, and I'll give you _happier_ ,” and his underwear joins her dress in swift order, and when he leans back down to kiss her and promises her,

 

 

   “I really just want to make you happy, Shireen,” she doesn't laugh at him because he sounds like a fumbling teenage twat. She smiles and winds her fingers into his hair and her legs around his waist and kisses him.

 

 

   “You are,” she says.

 

 

   He's in the kitchen making her a cuppa to bring up about five hours later after they've both exhausted themselves and then had a bit of kip, and he didn't even bother with underwear when he came down, giggling to himself like a lunatic when he realises that now Clegane really does have license to call him 'cunt-addled' whenever he likes, when he hears her from the doorway, bare feet padding on tile.

 

 

   “Rickon?” she yawns, and he nearly swallows his tongue because she did bother with underwear. She's found a pair of his and they're just clinging to her spare hips. Her hair's over her shoulders and loose but apart from that she is as the gods made her and they did a bang up job.

 

 

   “Thought you might like a cup of tea,” he says idly, content just to look at her, and she smiles tiredly and says,

 

 

   “I'd love one. Were you going to bring it up?”

 

 

   “'S what the tray's for. Unless you'd like it here?” he asks, not having considered she might not want to lounge around in bed for the rest of the day, which was his highest ambition.

 

 

   Her eyes are an invitation and her voice is low when she replies.

 

 

   “I'd like it. But maybe somewhere with curtains?”

 

 

   “I'll bring it up,” he manages, reining himself in only barely because he thinks she'd look wonderful on his kitchen floor and they'd probably make a lovely picture for anyone idly glancing in from the street but he doesn't want to share this.

 

 

   “Thank you,” she says warmly, and then ducks out of sight. He hears her seconds later, calling for him, and he picks up the tray and balances it as he calls back,

 

 

   “Yes love?”

 

 

   “Are you on call tonight?” he hears, and he makes his way up the stairs and round the corner, replying,

 

 

   “No, not tonight,” and then enters his bedroom and has to remind himself to keep hold of the tray.

 

 

   She's lying in his bed flat on her back, arms out to the sides, and she looks like a religious icon.

 

 

   He'd certainly pray to her. He thinks he did, earlier, but parts of it are still a blur.

 

 

   He sets the tray down on the floor and leans over her to kiss her, mumbling senselessly,

 

 

   “If _this_ is going to happen, I'm never going on call again...”

 

 

   “Rickon!” she utters, shocked, and he pulls back.

 

 

   “See, that's not a happy noise.”

 

 

   “It wasn't a funny joke - what you do is important,” she says firmly, and he smiles at her.

 

 

   “I know,” he says gently, picking up the mug he brought for her and handing it over, and when she's got it, he can't resist kissing her again, and adding,

 

 

   “It makes things like this happen.”

 

 

   “Well, you deserve it,” she says softly, and then looks down and squeezes his hand briefly, murmuring,

 

 

   “We both do.”

 

 

   “Yeah,” he sighs, completely content, picking up his own mug and then settling in next to her with her legs over his and his arm over her shoulder and a pillow over her lap for them to rest their mugs on, kissing her again deeply and feeling the amplified warmth of her,

 

 

   “We really do.”

 

 

   -

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The charity Rickon volunteers for is real, and extremely worthy.
> 
> For anyone interested in what the hell I've been banging on about, more information can be found here:
> 
> http://www.bloodbikes.org.uk/
> 
> http://www.serv.org.uk/site/


End file.
